


There But For The Grace

by do_it_to_julia



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Angst, Episode: s07e25 Endgame, F/M, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Pon Farr, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 06:13:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4595916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/do_it_to_julia/pseuds/do_it_to_julia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Star Trek Voyager short fanfic. Vorik-centric. Before Admiral Janeway changed the past, the voyage home took 23 years. Not everyone made it back.</p><p>Reposted because I am an idiot who orphaned all her own works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There But For The Grace

There is fire and pain, but this time he is prepared.

Seven years is a long time. Time enough for Vorik to realise that while B'Elanna would eventually speak to him again, there would always be a coldness in her eyes. Time enough also to find that this mattered to him, and he could not pretend otherwise.

He knew, of course, that she and the Doctor were keeping a quiet count of the years. Crew safety. Medical necessity. Awkward phrases the EMH had used at his last medical to which Vorik had stoically refused to respond. _I have the matter in hand, Doctor. I will not discuss this further._ Neither would he consent to wearing a cortical monitor again. When the time came, he would take two weeks' leave, and remain in his quarters, and he would brook no further intrusion into his privacy.

He knew that they would be watching his room for lifesigns when the time came, but that was simple enough to bypass, and a transport inhibitor would do the rest.

Now there is fire and pain, and his hand trembles as he welds the doors of his quarters shut from the inside, but the seal holds true. When he slams his fist against it eight days later, nothing breaks but some of his fingers. Sometimes it distracts him from thinking of her. Sometimes it doesn't hurt at all.

But mostly there is fire and pain.

Time begins to fracture. He feels the heat of the Vulcan sun on his face as he sleeps. When he wakes again he is in sickbay hearing the Doctor solemnly break the news of his death to the Captain. In the darkness of his quarters he can no longer light any candles for the shaking of his hands. He realises he will not leave this place.

The blood fever is not a merciful death. In his last lucid moments he wonders if he will take mercy on himself. He no longer has the discipline to stop his own heart, but there is a ceremonial knife on his wall, a family heirloom, that he is sure his hands will be steady enough to hold when the time comes.

Maybe they won't need to. Already the fires are consuming him. His wrists are thinner than he remembers and when he encircles one with his good hand it comes away slick with bloodied sweat. Maybe when they finally realise what is happening and break through the seal he has made, there will be nothing of him left to find.

Or maybe as he slumps bleeding against the sealed door, cheek to the metal like the cold body of a lover, he will hear her voice one last time.


End file.
